The sign read, “Custom Limericks.” I had to double take to make sure I read it correctly. Standing outside the grocery store, the poet looked like any guy anywhere. His expression was classic amongst the downtrodden. The empty hat at his feet indicated he hadn’t found his audience yet today. I quickly assumed that I, too, was not a member of this obscure group.

The audacity of his creative offering is impressive, even for the town of oddballs where I reside. As I wandered the store thinking about him, my interest piqued. Not everyone can just throw together a custom five-line anapaestic or amphibrachic meter poem with a strict rhyme scheme that has enjoyed scant popularity since the 19^th century.

The transaction intrigued me. What is the going rate for a custom limerick? If I don’t have the requisite amount of money, will he recite a standard limerick? Are there any limericks suitable for polite company? How would I even know it was custom? I decided the experience and chuckle would be worth the investment.

Hesitation proved my enemy. The poet left while I shopped. I missed out on a randy rhyme all my own. I guess that’s okay. Nothing rhymes with Cynthia.